


the moon would be ours

by addandsubtract



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: College Hockey, Creepy, Horror, M/M, Michigan Wolverines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:57:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11362647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: For as long as Zach can remember, his bedroom has always been cold.





	the moon would be ours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesaddestboner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/gifts).



> hey, thesaddestboner!! i saw in your likes that horror stuff is up your alley, which seemed like great fun. i hope this is to your taste. ♥
> 
> thanks to t for looking this over for me and for the super helpful input!

“Dude, what the hell is up with your bedroom?” JT asks, closing the door behind him as he comes back into the common room. “It’s November, why isn’t the heat on?” He and Kevin swung by after practice to study, and Zach warned them, but JT wanted to borrow a sweatshirt.

Zach shrugs. He can’t explain it in a way that makes any real sense. He can’t exactly say, _Everywhere I go is cold_ , so instead he says, “It’s just colder than the rest of the apartment. I talked to maintenance about it and everything, but they say all the pipes are working. They made some excuse about where in the building the room is.”

“That sounds like bullshit to me,” Kevin says. “How do you stand it?”

Zach digs into his backpack to find his Stats text. “Just used to it, I guess. I mostly hang out in the common room anyway.”

 

For as long as Zach can remember, his bedroom has always been cold. Since he was a kid, even. When he thinks back to it, it seems like it’s been that way forever, maybe since before he even started playing hockey. Like the ice traveled home with him.

No matter where he is, no matter how many blankets he piles onto the bed, no matter how he sets the thermostat, he always wakes up with the bedding askew, shivering in the center of his mattress. He wears sweats to bed, but it doesn’t help. It’s always cold.

In the NTDP his billet family had to put him in his own room. He used to joke that there wasn’t a heating system he couldn’t break by moving in. On road trips it isn’t as bad – somehow he has to live there for the chill to set in. Now that he’s in college, having a single in a suite isn’t too weird. Zach’s gotten used to the cold. It’s been going on so long that he barely notices it anymore. It’s the dreams that he’s started to wonder about.

The dreams themselves aren’t new. He’s always had them. Just – someone else in the room with him, when he was a kid. Talking to him. Another child, a friend who would play with him. They were never anywhere else but where he actually was, in his room, amongst his things, and growing up he’d thought they were a weird sort of reoccurring dream to have.

They’re different now. They have been for months. He’s in bed, and he’s cold, but it isn’t too bad until he feels a hand on his ankle. It wraps around the skin there, the chill settling into his bones. The hand pushes up the leg of his sweatpants, touches his calf, the back of his knee. It pauses there, and then the weight on the mattress shifts. He hadn’t noticed that there even was a weight until it moved. It touches his side, freezing through the fabric like it isn’t even there, and then up to his shoulder, his neck. The hand cups the back of his neck, and Zach wants to look, wants to open his eyes and see what’s touching him, and then it kisses him.

Its mouth is as cold as its hand. The kiss is firm, chaste until it isn’t. There’s a whispering sound in Zach’s ears, like a snake sliding across tile, like wind through bare branches, and then there’s a cold, cold tongue in his mouth, pressing closer, and a weight on his chest. He’s shaking all over, but he stays still. It seems like it would be wrong to move, so he doesn’t. He stays still beneath the touch, wanting – something he can’t name.

When he wakes up, he’s shuddering, his sweats pushed up to his knees, the blankets tangled around him. He can still feel the kiss, the fingers in his hair, and he’s hard.

He touches himself through his sweats and comes, trembling. He doesn’t know what it is, but it feels real.

 

Sometimes, it feels like there’s a hand on his arm, even when he’s awake. Sometimes he thinks he sees something dark in the corner of his eye, but when he turns, there’s nothing there. He doesn’t think this is new, but he can’t be sure. He’s playing the best hockey he’s ever played, and he’s tired all the time.

After he dreams, he wakes up full of energy. Like a shot of adrenaline. He starts to look forward to them, the way they make him feel after, on the edge of arousal, like he can do anything. He pulls more in the weight room, skates faster. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s making him better.

 

The team is playing well, too. It’s Zach’s second year, and there’s the specter of the NHL hanging over his head – will he go pro next year? Is it the right time?

Zach graduated early so he could come to Michigan when he did. He’s always pushed himself hard, listened to that voice in the back of his head telling him that he can do more. Does he really want to leave early, too? How much more is there for him to learn here?

“Dude,” Niko says. They’re all drinking in the common room – the benefits of hanging out with older guys. “You know you’re good enough to go. Why stay?”

Zach shrugs. He wants to play in the NHL more than anything, but, “I don’t want to rush into it.”

“You mean like how you’re in your second year of college and you haven’t hooked up with anyone?” Niko snorts, and Tyler, sprawled out on the couch, laughs. Zach has a pretty good poker face, but he can tell he’s getting red.

“Stop,” he says.

“I don’t have a problem with it, I’m just saying there’s such a thing as too cautious.” Niko raises his eyebrows and hands Zach another beer. Zach thinks about how, in his dreams, there are cold fingers circling his nipple, insistent kisses that leave him shivering. It isn’t as if he can tell anyone about it.

 

He goes home for winter break, then to the WJC, then back home after they lose, and the dreams don’t stop. Brad has long since stopped coming into Zach’s room for anything other than to wake him up.

His first night back, Zach dreams about the hands pushing up the fabric of his sweatshirt, a cold mouth kissing his chest and stomach, a tongue pressing, wet, into his belly button. He dreams about the hands pulling the fabric of his pants out of the way, and a mouth licking over the head of his dick, sucking him in. It’s almost too cold to enjoy, but he still wakes up with come cooling on his stomach and teeth marks on his palm where he’d bit down in his sleep. The bruise stays there for days afterward.

Brad calls him out on all the early morning showers, and then says, “How do you even get off when it’s that cold?”

“Christ, Brad,” Zach says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“What? I’m just asking,” Brad says, and leans across the kitchen table to ruffle his hair.

“Do other people have brothers like you? Because if so, I feel bad for them.” Zach stuffs a spoonful of cereal into his mouth and tries not to think about how he’s worried that the cold will start to make him horny on its own. This morning, he felt like there were still hands cupping his chin and neck when he woke up. There’s no one he can explain this to.

“Just means you’re a healthy teenager, bud,” Brad says. He looks weirdly proud. “Good for you.” 

 

Zach takes a bad trip two games after the break is over – he goes headfirst into the boards behind Michigan’s net. He feels dizzy when he staggers back to his feet, and when he tells Coach, he gets pulled from the rest of the game. He half wishes that he hadn’t said anything, even though he feels nauseous already.

He’s diagnosed with a very mild concussion and told to take it easy. They don’t have another game until next weekend, so he’s excused from practice for the next few days, and told to check in with the doctors after that to see if he’s good to go. He’s still feeling dizzy when he gets back to his room, but he doesn’t realize that anything is odd until he looks at his bed and someone is sitting on it.

“What the fuck,” Zach says, on instinct, and the – boy, a boy with curly hair and a flush spread across his cheeks, looks up.

“You can see me,” he says. His voice sounds familiar, but Zach can’t place it. He can’t place him at all, his face, but he’s wearing a Michigan t-shirt and no shoes and he isn’t shivering in the cold. His eyes are wide with surprise. “What happened?”

“What – what happened?” Zach echoes, uncertain. He needs to sits down.

“You can really see me,” the boy repeats. “So – something must have happened.”

“What does that even mean?” Zach asks. He doesn’t want to sit on the bed, next to this boy he doesn’t know but still somehow recognizes, so he collapses down into his desk chair. “Who are you?”

The boy smiles. There’s something both sly and innocent in it. “Me? I’m – you can call me Dylan, I guess. That works. I live here. Are you okay?”

Zach rubs at his temple. “I’m mildly concussed, but I’m – you don’t live here, I do.”

“That explains it,” Dylan says. “Why you can see me already, I mean. And of course I live here. Who do you think is watching you all the time?”

“What?” Zach says. He feels stupid. Dylan is still smiling at him, and he stands up, walking closer. His bare feet don’t make a sound on the carpet, but when his hand touches Zach’s neck, he can feel it. It’s so cold. Zach jolts, and then Dylan kisses him.

This Zach recognizes. It slides into place. Dylan’s mouth is as cold as his fingers are, and his kisses are insistent. Zach can’t help kissing back. He’s never really been able to before.

Dylan makes a delighted sound against Zach’s mouth, and then he’s in Zach’s lap, his hands pushing underneath Zach’s shirt, touching skin. He doesn’t warm up against the heat of Zach’s skin, just stays cool, pressing his fingertips between Zach’s ribs and over his back, until Zach is overwhelmed with it. He shouldn’t be letting this happen. He should be asking more questions, figuring out – how long Dylan has been here, and how. How he’s been in Zach’s dreams.

Instead, when Dylan tugs Zach up, he goes. He lets Dylan press him down into the bed.

“This is way better when you’re awake,” Dylan says, and bites into his mouth hard enough to sting. The room is slowly spinning, but Dylan pulls down Zach’s pants, and Zach lets him. He realizes that he’s clutching at the back of Dylan’s shirt, and that when Dylan leans in, over him, he can feel Dylan’s dick against the bowl of his hip through Dylan’s pants, mostly hard. Dylan gets a hand around him, fingers stroking with the surety that he knows how to make Zach feel good. And he does – he knows what to do to make Zach squirm, knows how to make him moan.

Zach comes, too fast, and then watches, panting, as Dylan licks the come off of his fingers.

“Does that answer your questions?” Dylan asks. Zach doesn’t think it does, really, but he watches while Dylan unbutton his pants, his dick bobbing out, wet at the tip. Zach licks his lips. He’s been – he never moves, in his dreams. He never wants to. Now he does. Dylan laughs, says, “Like what you see?”

“I’m – um. Are you really here all the time?” Zach watches Dylan stroke himself so casually, thumb rubbing over the slit and down, spreading precome.

Dylan’s whole posture is loose when he shrugs. His shirt is sticking to his chest, even though Zach can’t imagine he’s warm enough to sweat – does he sweat cold? “I’ve been watching you for years. Watching you sleep, watching you practice. Watching you shower. Watching you play videogames with Brad. You’re fascinating.”

It’s objectively creepy. Zach doesn’t know why he can’t seem to mind. “Why me?”

“There’s not really an easy answer to that question,” Dylan says. He leans in to kiss Zach again, and Zach goes with it. Dylan is the only person (person?) he’s kissed. He’s never really thought about why, but now it seems like he should.

He wants more.

He kisses Dylan’s cold throat, his chest, and then knocks Dylan’s hand away from his dick. It tastes – bitter, similar to the way his own come tastes, but dustier, somehow. Dylan winds his fingers into Zach’s hair, and lets Zach lick and kiss until he feels confident enough to sink down.

“Fuck,” Dylan says. “This is definitely better than when you’re asleep.” He touches Zach’s cheeks, the back of his neck. He seems to like talking. “I’ve thought about doing this, pushing my dick into your mouth – you’re so goddamned hot – fuck.”

Zach sucks harder, and he can feel the way Dylan’s hips twitch. He wonders if Dylan is dead, or something else.

“You’re more pliable when you’re asleep,” Dylan says, on what sounds like a swallowed laugh. “I like this so much better.”

He warns Zach before he comes, but Zach’s too curious. He sucks Dylan through it, coughing at the cold semen that trickles down his throat, and then swallowing through it. It’s weird, sticky and cool, but there’s something about it he likes, too. He can feel it sliding through him, and the world goes sharp for a second, like everything is suddenly more in focus. He feels – he feels good.

“Who knew you getting a concussion would be such good news for me,” Dylan says, flopped down onto the bed on his back. He turns to Zach with a grin. “Do you remember when you were a kid, and you saw me for the first time?”

“I –“ Zach starts, but he’s not sure. “I don’t think so.”

“You were in the woods behind the lake house your parents took you to. There was a barn, abandoned and falling apart, and you went inside. I was inside.”

Zach remembers that barn. The windows had all been broken, and he’d crawled in through a small hole in one of the walls. It smelled like decaying hay and rusted metal. He’d looked up at the hayloft and thought – hm. It’s hard to remember.

“You looked up at me, and said hello. You were such a precious little thing.” Dylan turns on his side and trails his fingers up the length of Zach’s arm, leaving trickling coolness behind.

Zach thinks about the hayloft, looking up. There was a hole in the ceiling that let the light in, but the loft was mostly dark. Eyes in the darkness, maybe. A black shape curling out and oozing down, over the edge, down to the uneven dirt floor around him. He thinks maybe it touched him, but he can’t be sure. It’s so hard to remember.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dylan says. He kisses Zach’s shoulder, and his chin. “It doesn’t matter. Just know that I’ve been here for you this whole time. Watching you. Watching out for you. I’m here to make sure you go places.”

“What does that mean?” Zach asks. He likes Dylan’s mouth on his face. His heart is going a mile a minute.

“I was there the first time you tried on skates,” Dylan says. “My hands on your shoulders, holding you up. You liked the cold. I made sure there were no distractions. I’m still making sure.” He hums, licks Zach’s lower lip, and then inside his mouth. Zach thinks about the feeling of the ice when he pushes off. He thinks about the darkness in the corner of his eye. He wonders how much of his life he could go back through and find traces of Dylan there.

“What do you get out of it?” Zach asks, when Dylan pulls away.

Dylan kisses him once on the mouth, chaste, and then again. Zach feels – he doesn’t know. He hasn’t consciously been waiting, but maybe he was waiting for Dylan somehow. Maybe this was always going to happen.

“I get you, I think,” Dylan says. He laughs a lot, and Zach likes it. It’s familiar, even if he’s sure he’s never actually heard it before today. Comforting. “Do I get you, Zach?”

“Sure,” Zach says. Dylan’s hand is creeping over his waist, thumb pushing into the divot of his hip. “Why not?”

 

Zach’s concussion barely lasts twenty-four hours. In fact, Zach can’t remember feeling dizzy after they had sex that first time. Dylan stays. Dylan is always in his room when he gets back from classes, from practice, from games. Zach sees him in the stands, sees him outside their hotel rooms. Dylan is just – around. He says, “Now that you know I’m here, you can’t unknow it.” He touches Zach so easily, kisses him, works him open on cold fingers. The first time he pushes inside Zach, all the way inside, Zach throws his head back, tears escaping from the corners of his eyes. It feels so good. It’s so cold.

He kisses and kisses and kisses Zach, and comes inside him, everything about him making Zach tremble. Zach feels _more_ , in a way he can’t describe, like he’s more than he’s ever been before.

“You’re so good at this,” Dylan says, mouth pressed tight to Zach’s ear, still slowly rocking into him. “I love everything about you. You’re going to do so much.”

Zach falls asleep with Dylan still inside him. He doesn’t dream about Dylan anymore. He doesn’t have to.

 

“Where has your head been, lately?” JT asks him after practice one day. They’re almost to the playoffs. They’re definitely making the playoffs. “We’ve barely seen you. Are you hooking up with someone or something?”

Zach smiles, shrugs. “Or something.”

JT laughs. “Okay, sure. Just don’t forget who your friends are.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

 

“If I leave next year,” Zach says. “You’ll come with me?”

Dylan is curled up around him, sucking a hickey onto the skin of Zach’s collarbones. Even if no one can see Dylan they can still see the marks he leaves. Zach likes that.

“Of course I’ll come with you. Where else would I possibly be?” He laughs, and his breath is cold enough to puff out into the air, white coils of smoke.

Zach tilts his head further back to give Dylan more access. “You think I should go?”

“Baby,” Dylan says. He scrapes his teeth over Zach skin, hard enough to make Zach shiver. “I think it would be a crime not to. You’re destined for big things.”

Zach feels like he might split out of his own skin, some days. He feels like he has too much energy, like everything is too _good_. Too easy. He listens to the sound of Dylan’s mouth on his clavicle, and he thinks, maybe for the first time, that he won’t be missing out if he leaves. Dylan will be right there with him. He says, “I still don’t really understand what you’re getting out of this.”

Dylan laughs, letting his fingers drift up Zach’s sides. “I told you, I get you. You’re stuck with me forever.”


End file.
